Behind Closed Doors (5 times Kristoff sees Anna's bedroom)
by redonthefly
Summary: Snapshots of Kristoff and Anna's relationship during their first year together. (Rating reflects later chapters: parts one and two and four are K /T.)
1. Chapter 1

[1/5]

* * *

The first time it's just the slip of it, a peek through the crack in the door over her head. He walked her up that evening, through the meandering corridors and past so many portraits and suits of armor that they all blend together, and he wonders how he's going to find his way out of this maze of wood and carpet.

In fact, it takes him no time at all; he's modest about his sense of direction, but the truth is that Kristoff could find his way out of an _actual_ maze, blindfolded and drunk if he needed to, but he doesn't like to brag.

Anna's room is on one of the upper floors. The bottom stories of the castle are for business; its a near constant bustle of state rooms, ballrooms and parlors, the kitchens, galleries, the library. Upstairs is for living. Kristoff can almost picture what Anna meant when she talked about the emptiness, the lonely echoing hallways and musty drapes, but it's transformed now by glittering clean windows, freshly shampooed rugs, and cheerfully touched up paint along the doorframes and wainscoting. His first impressions of the castle will always be of Anna's wide smiles and Elsa's quiet, beaming contentment. He likes it best that way.

Certainly he's been upstairs before – for Sunday tea, for thick and sticky summer afternoons when it is too hot to do anything except read and nap (Anna and Elsa are both fiends for stories, can eat up whole days with them if left undisturbed) in one of the common rooms, for muggy evenings eating a casual dinner, the three of them cross legged on the floor next to the empty fireplace. Upstairs is relaxed, joking and living; downstairs is not unfriendly, but it _is_ formal, so at the top of the staircase Anna and Elsa will fuss with their dresses and tuck in their hair, stand up straighter and become the Queen and the Princess. The first time he sees them do it he wants to bow.

Elsa can maintain the impression effortlessly – she _is_ the Queen, no question – Anna's stateliness will last until something more interesting catches her attention, then she'll be off in a flutter of petticoats.

It happens that their actual sleeping rooms are in another wing, somewhere he's never been, an apartment to which even the title Ice Master and Deliverer does not grant you access. Kristoff assumed for a while that it was a propriety thing, an architectural design feature to deter would-be suitors or thwart potential thugs from finding the royal family, but when he mentioned it to Anna she just turned red and told him it was the quietest part of the castle.

Privately Kristoff considers himself a suitor of sorts (he avoids labels usually, but he and Anna haven't talked about it, not really, it just sort of _is_) so that night when she leads him in hand down the hallway, a little trill of excitement and curiosity runs up his spine.

Before he can spend too much time dwelling on it, he's standing outside her door. It's a nice door, as far as doors go, he supposes: painted carefully in green and pink florets, and tall enough to catch his attention, tall enough that he wouldn't have to duck passing the threshold.

There's no threshold passing this evening: just two young people standing outside a closed door. He holds her hands and bends to kiss her – carefully, always carefully – whispers "Good night, Princess", which is what he always says, just to hear her snort at the epithet. He's about to pull away, but Anna grabs his shirt and holds him closer, lengthening their innocent goodnight kiss long enough for him to wrap his hands around her and marvel at how his fingers span her waist.

The three months of their acquaintance has been punctuated with simple kisses, the brief touching of lips and lingering gazes in front of closed doors (but never behind them – she hasn't offered, he's too shy to ask, and what would they even _do_; the idea makes his stomach jump around and pulse quicken).

Kristoff was raised on fables of heroes and maidens fair; he's heard all of the faerie tales, he can recite poems about true love memorized from dozens of hushed bedtime retellings. Three months ago they were stories from his childhood, fantasies of nonsense whispered in the dark, the breath of creatures whose world is half magic and half dream. Kristoff prefers his feet on the ground, wants to know where he stands, likes the solid earth beneath his feet. His world is frequently hard as stone, and cold as ice; he'd given up on the tales of true love years ago. Skeptical ice harvesters need not apply.

Anna leaves him breathless late at night just from thinking about her, overwhelmed by the simultaneously wonderful and uncomfortable pressure of joy. She is becoming familiar like the castle's hallways and paintings: she's a tapestry whose story he is just beginning to unravel.

A minute later she breaks away, cheeks and lips pink. She grins without looking at him directly, opting instead to twine her hands into her skirt.

"Not that I'm complaining, "he says carefully, nervously smoothing the wrinkled front of his tunic, "but what was that for, again?"

"Um. I was just thinking, that I lo- that I love – you – coming to dinner. Right." Anna puffs out her cheeks, staring determinedly at a spot on the floor. "It's just, um, really…great."

Kristoff blinks, nonplussed.

"Dinner?"

"Yes. Wait. No. _No_." She shakes her head, looks him directly in the eye, and his heart leaps into his throat (he always thought that was a figure of speech, but he can't seem to swallow).

"_I love you."_

There's a moment of shocked silence because they've said it together: a voice in unison, eager, sincere and scared. Kristoff gapes at her, and she stares at him then slowly smiles, and he realizes after a second that he's grinning so largely that he can feel his teeth.

Anna kisses his cheek lightly, standing on tiptoe, balancing with her fingertips against his shoulder.

"Goodnight Kristoff."

She's quick; one second he's gawping at her, trying to shape words (any would do), the next she's turned the knob and slipped behind her door. Over her head he has the passing impression of pink wallpaper and in the draft of new air, a faint whiff of something distinctly feminine.

"Goodnight Princess."

The hallway is quiet, dim in evening. He lets out a full breath, even and slow, shakes his head a little then makes for downstairs, humming.

His chest is heavy again with a feeling full and warm and fantastic and confusing, but now it has a name.


	2. Chapter 2

[2/5]

* * *

The next time he sees her room it's at Elsa's request.

Summer at the palace is what Anna calls 'busy season' – it's the time for visiting, for diplomacy, for Elsa to dance with courtiers and meet their children and draw up the trade agreements that will keep Arendelle and other countries cozy in the winter. It's busy season for an ice miner too; Kristoff spends long nights hauling ice out of the highest mountain lakes, or busy days in the market, trading and selling what he's stored over the winter.

It doesn't leave much time for socializing – not the kind he prefers at least, just him and Anna and a picnic basket and a meadow somewhere – but if you love a princess, sometimes you do what you have to do, and sometimes that means agreeing to escort her to a state function on your evening off.

He's never been to a ball before. The castle has buzzed with it for weeks, including Anna, who insisted on having his clothes starched (in the end he'd been fitted for a formal suit anyway, poked with pins and measured again and again by a man with bored eyes and a scowl); he caught Elsa practicing a two-step in the library, wincing at her imaginary partner; and every staff member he's spoken to lately has had nothing else to talk about (down to the stable boy even, someone Kristoff considers a like-mind).

Anna knows what to expect and is excited enough for both of them. She can look forward to the music and dancing, the tables of pastries and little pickled vegetables, the fancy clothes and staying up way too late. Kristoff has no frame of reference for fancy parties or extravagance in general, but his pants are too stiff and he smells strongly of detergent. If it's a portent of what balls are like he's not going to get his hopes up, despite what she says.

Still, Anna's eyes had glowed and she'd clapped her hands in delight when he modeled this new getup for her the day before. He wouldn't dare of disappoint her, so the crunchy clothes are on, and the ball is happening.

He's walking up the main staircase, weaving through the waltz of people carrying plates and linens and baskets of flowers, tugging at his newly acquired cravat, adjusting the woven band around his hips when he almost bowls over Elsa on her way down.

"_Kristoff!_ Good, oh, I'm glad a ran into you – " Elsa is slightly out of breath, and her cheeks are pinker than usual. Like himself, she's in her formal clothes – though in her case it's a navy silk gown, with an edging of fine tissue lace that Kristoff suspects is her own design, crafted in ice and frost. When she's flustered, the air around her chills perceptively; tonight, standing next to her is like standing in a cloud.

"Can you go check on Anna? We're late, I'm supposed to be shaking hands with people now, but I couldn't wait for her any longer okaythankyou I've got to go." She takes a deep breath, pats his arm and turns back down the stairs (the flow of people, Kristoff notices, parts unconsciously for her – always reverent).

By the time he reaches the fourth landing he's alone, and wheezing, the cravat unceremoniously yanked off and stuffed in his pocket, jacket unbuttoned and hanging open so he can get a full breath. Though there is a continual low hum of people and music wafting up from below, it's much quieter here. His new boots squeak on the wooden floor.

He raises his hand to knock, but before he can, there's a scuffling huffing sound, an audible _thump_.

"Anna?"

"Kristoff? Is that you?" There's another thump.

"Yes?" He ventures, hand on the knob. "Can I come in?"

"_Please_. It's unlocked."

His hand turns, and the door opens, swinging silently on well-oiled hinges.

He was right; the room _is _pink – _very_ pink – floral wallpaper, patterned rugs, an enormous bed (unmade) with a tall canopy and layered with discarded clothing. At first he doesn't think it looks like her kind room at all – Anna is girly, but she isn't prissy, and this room is flowers and dolls and lace on _everything_. Then he sees her: against the opposite wall is a wooden vanity with a large mirror, and Anna is standing in front of it, trying to see her reflection while turning in tight little circles, reaching for something on her back.

Okay then, yes. It's hers.

She catches sight of him in the reflection and stops, bent over backwards, fingers grasping in the air and grins at him upside down.

He'll never stop loving her, no, not ever, this weird and clumsy girl in her pink room, but it's not enough to keep him from laughing at her sometimes, chasing ribbon strings like a puppy pursuing its own tail.

Anna rights herself and blushes, and he covers his mouth, rolls his lips under his teeth to keep them still, and clears his throat.

"I think I need some help," she says flatly, after a beat. Kristoff chuckles, and covers the distance between them in two strides.

She turns her back to him and he can see the problem. Bending at the waist, he squints at the mess of ribbon and dress and lacey things – it's women's clothing, a mystery, but it doesn't look right. "What did you manage here? You're one big knot – " Anna shrugs, silk rustling.

"Oh, well, you know. I think I laced my dress into my corset. I can't get it undone. I mean, I'd just leave it – Elsa's mad at me for making her late – but I think she'd be more cross if I came downstairs with my underwear showing."

His eyebrows shoot up – which she can't see, thankfully – but the mountaineer is already taking over, mentally breaking down the tangle of green and white ribbons, eyelets and stays.

"May I?" He asks, laying a hand on her back. Her shoulders are exposed, and so is a length of her spine, pale and smooth, curving up her neck and down into her bustle. He'd like to linger – would like to push the little shoulder pieces off and see if she's like this all the way around, all peaches and cream, would like to count her freckles – but this is business, there is a ball waiting. Anna hums and nods (and where his palm is on her back he can feel the muscles move), so he begins to pick apart the knot, expertly running strands of ribbon across each other until the pieces fall free and open like wings.

"Ah, that's much better," she exclaims, wiggling her arms and stretching. "I couldn't even get my hands over my head to pull the thing off, which is silly, I've been dressing myself for _years_." Anna turns to face him, laughing at herself, then, standing on her tiptoes, hooks her arms around his neck.

"Thank you," she smiles. She's warm and wearing something sweet smelling, and without the strict whalebone and laces holding her tightly together, she's all Anna: curving, flexible, potential energy.

Kristoff dips his head to meet hers, kisses her nose then her mouth, lingering just a little on the mental picture of her bare back, holding the kiss a fraction more than a chaste 'thank you for helping me Kristoff' kiss might require. It's an indulgence to daydream about her this way (especially when they have places to go – how long have they been here?), but Anna responds by pressing herself into him, skating her tongue against his lips, and his hands are running down the open length of her waist, skimming over skin.

They're comfortable with this now – not so shy, more practiced – but it's exciting, a little forbidden, this is her _bedroom._

It's the sound of footsteps that stop them, and though they pass by Anna's door without slowing (_a maid_, Anna mouths at him, gently extracting his hand from where is has come to rest inside her bodice, against her waist) the ball is still happening downstairs and they both know they'll need to hurry.

Anna laces herself up without incident and bounces out the room – pausing at the door to wink him, so he melts a little – thoughts clouded by _her_, this crazy beautiful girl.

Kristoff takes one extra breath to readjust himself and his shirt before following her, jacket still unbuttoned and cravat gone but he doesn't care, if this is a ball, whatever, he'll go to balls.


	3. Chapter 3

[3/5]

* * *

He's waiting outside her door, alone on a Sunday afternoon, anger fading rapidly into a warm fuzz under his fingernails and a heavy feeling against his ribs.

He pacing feels ridiculous, so he settles for leaning against the opposite wall, heels digging into the carpet, arms crossed and staring at the door. Every now and then he pushes himself more upright (the rug keeps sliding under his feet), and aims a fresh glare at the painted rosettes and leaves.

_Go knock on the door,_ the reasonable, rational part of his brain whispers. _Tell her you're out here. Tell her you'd do anything to talk to her, and that you're sorry for being a big stupid idiot with a big stupid mouth. _The voice is soothing, calming, and very, very annoying; he leans his head back against the wall with a hard _thonk_ and it shuts up.

It was a bad move. Now he can just hear himself more clearly, and he winces.

"_Just go – I don't know – go find someone else for people to gawk at!" _

They'd stomped off in opposite directions, his shoulders tight under his ears, and Anna's braids swinging wildly behind her back. Kristoff had stopped and watched her go, proud and indignant for a whole five minutes before turning around, an unexpected dread roiling in his stomach as he ran back toward the castle gates.

Anna can really move when she wants to; even though his strides are twice the length of hers, he turns into the corridor with barely enough time to see her disappear into her room, and to hear the door snap shut with a crack.

Of course she'll open it (he knows she hates closed doors) but that doesn't make it easier to wait; he's getting creative imagining scenarios where she kicks him out of the country for losing his temper and yelling at the princess. Kristoff reaches up to pinch his nose and rub his temples – there's pressure growing behind his eyes: the beginning of a headache, and probably a big one.

He slumps into a sitting position and digs the heels of his palms against his eyebrows. The wood floor is warm from autumn sunshine, though the beam from the window has inched several feet to the left.

"I'm still a little mad at you," Anna's voice says.

Kristoff's eyes launch open and he wrenches himself up, tries to get his feet underneath him again, and almost loses his balance when the carpet slips. Anna is standing in her doorframe – he always forgets how silent that door is – and though her arms are firmly crossed, her face is gentle. He dusts himself off, and unsure of what to do with his hands, settles on stuffing them into his pockets.

"Not for being upset," she continues, "but for what you said. How you said it, I guess."

"I _am_ sorry," he says, and he is, very much so, and he hopes she believes him.

"I know. So am I. I knew you were uncomfortable. But Kristoff, sometimes…look, I can't just stay inside all the time; been there, done that, kind of over it."

He sighs, and she frowns.

"I don't think a walk in town with you is asking a lot, you know."

"People stare." It falls out unexpectedly, he'd meant to say something else, something more along the lines of 'yes sweetheart, anything you want, anything.'

Anna blinks.

"That bothers you?" She asks slowly, and gives him a look. "It hasn't before."

"Because…it's rude." Kristoff wants to tell her how the feeling of that many eyes, scrutinizing and curious and judgmental makes his skin crawl. He'd like to be able to explain to her how keenly the difference between anonymity and notoriety stings, and how embarrassing that is, that it would bother him so. Maybe he will, someday, but Anna's posture has softened and she's looking at him like she understands, and he loves her enormously because today he doesn't have to.

"I can always get someone from Elsa's staff to take me. One of the handsome ones," she teases, poking a finger into his stomach.

"You don't need to go with someone else," he says, and pulling his hands from his pockets, wraps her into his chest. She doesn't protest. "Not some prissy castle boy, anyway. You'd be _so_ bored."

From somewhere in the region of his armpit she snorts, and a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

"Better stick with you then," she says, hands wrapping around his waist as she takes a step backwards, drawing him into the room. Kristoff half-turns and kicks the door closed with his heel, very aware of the smell of her perfume, how her hands are gliding over his lower back.

"You want to do this _now?_" He asks between pressing kisses on her neck. "I mean, we were just fighting…" Anna laughs and gives his behind a squeeze that makes him jump; his skin feels electric.

"_Kristoff_."

Somehow she can turn his name into a full sentence, a whole conversation laden with implication. Anna's face is hot under his lips, skin flushed and plump, and he makes up his mind, covers her shoulders with his palms, and holding her firmly in front of him, fingers gripping a fraction tighter than usual into her dress, steers her toward the bed in the center of the room.

Before they reach it she brushes him off. He stops short, unsure if he's meant to continue, but Anna's hands are moving quick, tugging at his sash, pulling his shirt from his waistband.

He nudges one foot against hers and she steps back again, then once more, until they've reached the edge of her bed – it's absurdly large for such a small person, the frame raising it high off the floor. Anna's hands are still fisted in his shirt, so he lifts her the few inches necessary for her to sit on the mattress, and she hooks her feet behind his knees, holding his body close.

Everything about her is heat. There is a pulsing pounding in his ears, and he's not sure which of them it belongs to; his heart is shuddering in his chest, in his neck, between his legs.

Anna shoves her hands up into his shirt, drags her fingers up from his waist to his shoulder blades, and he gasps, shivers when the skin erupts in gooseflesh against the draw of her nails. He can feel her grin against his neck, and she repeats the motion backwards, fingers splayed, running through the curls of hair on his chest, down over his stomach, then across the width of his hips.

"_Off_," she says, a whisper, and he nods, straightens, pulls the tunic off with one hand and says a brief mental thank you to whoever made the thing, loose and oversized as it is.

He leans forward again, legs braced against the edge of the bed, their hips and chests colliding. Anna's legs are strong: when he runs one hand up her thigh she flexes unconsciously, grips his waist between her legs, moves herself along him.

There's a natural rhythm – a kind of instinct brought of desire – and they've found it in her rolling hips, in his pushing against her. Hands and mouths are everywhere – on his back and hips and wound in his hair, her waist, breasts, and one between her shoulder blades where he holds her upright.

Anna gasps whenever he moves, and it's going so well, going very, _very _well, her body pressed against his, warm and pliant and inviting, that Kristoff is suddenly acutely aware that, yes, he needs to stop – like, _yesterday. _

With effort, he pulls away from her, then rolls them both up over the bed so that they're laying side to side, a breathless tangle of petticoats and legs. Anna nuzzles into his shoulder, one hand drawing lazy circles on his bare chest. He takes a deep breath. Then another. _Okay_.

"Are we alright then?" He asks after a minute or two.

"Yeah." Her voice is muffled against his skin.

"You let me sit out there for hours."

Anna pushes her face away from him, quirks her eyebrows up in a question.

"What are you talking about? Kristoff, it was less than ten minutes. I saw you."

"Just felt like it I guess."

"Ah. Well, you know how to avoid that now anyway."

"What, go shopping with you?"

She stuffs a pillow in his face.


	4. Chapter 4

[4/5]

Kristoff is starting to get the hang of castle etiquette. Anna insists that he eat with her and Elsa whenever he's in town – which is more often now, given the whole 'Ice Master and Deliverer' business (turns out it _is _a thing, even if it's a thing Elsa completely made up) – so castle meals are quickly becoming a regular part of his routine.

When it's just the three of them, they eat upstairs with everything on the table at once. Anna will talk with her mouth full and Elsa will fuss with her napkin, and he will eat salad with a meat fork and no one will care.

When the castle has visitors, they will eat downstairs at a long table with weird skinny tablecloths and candles, and dinner service is brought out one course at a time. Anna will take small, lady-like bites, Elsa will still fuss with her napkin, and, if he remembers, he will brush his hair and not begin eating until after the Queen has taken the first taste.

Formal dinners are not on Kristoff's list of favorite things (whatever, it's a short list anyway), but Anna will hang on his arm and glow when they are introduced to Mister Visiting Whomever, make silly faces at dinner when Elsa isn't looking, run her foot up his leg under the table, and lately, slip out into the snowy garden or the library with him after dinner to do things that are definitely not approved of in the catalog of Things Proper Princesses Do.

These things _are_ on his list of favorites, and he's not sure how he'll ever be able to tell her what a relief it is to not worry about where his next meal is coming from. Anna has not and thankfully will never know what that's like, real hunger, but a man can only eat so many carrots; he's grateful beyond imagining for her and Elsa's generosity, and so far totally incapable of saying so. In any case, for her delighted smiles and a full plate, he will gladly accept her invitations to dinner, which is how he came to be sitting, once again, in a tall straight-backed chair trying not to fidget while they wait for dessert.

At the other end of the table, Elsa is talking earnestly to the Duke of Somewhere-He's-Forgotten about tariffs and imports. It's a subject he's familiar with (lots of ice goes overseas), and is considering trying to break into their conversation when Anna leaps from her seat, claps a hand over her mouth and sprints out of the room.

He's on his feet without thinking, following the trail of her braids through the kitchen, out a back door and catches up just in time to see the heir apparent of Arendelle throwing up her dinner into some winter roses.

"You did NOT see that," she groans, pointing a shaky finger at him. "It did NOT happen."

"Whatever you say, princess." He takes her hand, and she sags, staggering against him. "Oh, oh, okay. Here we go." He hoists her up – compared to what he normally lifts, Anna feels like a paperweight – and maneuvers them easily through the kitchen, up the staircase and down the long series of hallways to her bedroom.

"You didn't see anything," she murmurs as he lays her in bed and tucks the sheets up under her chin.

"Of course not." He squeezes her hand softly, then ducks into the bathroom to grab a washrag for her face. It takes him a few minutes to find them – her washroom is as cluttered as her bedroom, towels on the floor and little bottles of ointment and lotions of every surface – but she's asleep by the time he returns, curled tightly on her side.

Kristoff meets Elsa at the bottom of the main stairs.

"What was that about?" She asks, voice low. The Duke of Somewhere-He's-Forgotten is talking with Kai in the corner about a painting, apparently undisturbed by the interruption in their meal.

Kristoff shrugs. "She barfed, that's all." Elsa gives him a look, and he rolls his eyes (call a spade a spade). "_Fine_, she's _indisposed_."

"Do you think she'll be alright?" Elsa's hand is on the banister; her face is calm and impassive, but a breath of frost is creeping along the underside of the polished wood. Kristoff coughs lightly and she snatches her hands up, tucks them protectively under her armpits.

"It's probably just something she ate," he says gently. "Anna's healthy. I put her in bed; she'll be fine tomorrow."

* * *

She isn't.

On the fifth day, she doesn't recognize him when he visits. He pushes a damp strand of hair off her cheek, presses a cool rag to her forehead and she doesn't stir: just looks right through him to the wall with eyes vacant, glazed and rheumy with fever. He has become an apparition.

Kristoff steps into the hall, and shuts the door behind him lightly. It's odd – he can't feel the floor under his feet, or hear the conversation of the various maids and attendants milling around – he shakes his head to clear it, but a white fog has wrapped around his lungs; it's closing up his throat, and burning behind his eyes.

Someone's hand is on his shoulder – a man with a monocle and gloves – moving him to the side, stepping to the room. Further down the hall another door is solidly frozen over, icicles and hoarfrost spreading from it like a disease.

By the next afternoon he's threatened a maid and punched the man the in the monocle (and doesn't remember doing either) and is lying on the cot next he's erected next to Anna's big bed, fingering the edge of her quilt.

Overhead the shadows change on the ceiling meaning someone has opened the door (which is still completely silent: it is no herald of nursemaids or doctors or any other members of the parade of sorrow mouthed people checking Anna's temperature and changing her bed linens and pointedly ignoring him laying a few inches away.)

He's an invisible man, so when he crawls up on the bed beside her no one notices or seems to care. Her sheets still smell faintly of sweat – it's the slightly sweet odor of the very sick. It coats his mouth when he curls around her, tucking her close to his chest. She feels tiny and frail and too warm, but her heartbeat is a regular pulse.

He lays awake all night, barely daring to blink even in the dark, waiting for the soft rise and fall of her shoulders and counting the seconds to keep the fog of fear at bay.

* * *

Something is touching his face. Whatever it is tickles his chin, and he shakes his head sleepily, burrowing deeper into the pillows and sheets.

Sheets. Pillows. This is not normal. His eyes snap open, then widen: Anna is peering at him, her nose just a few inches from his. Her face is still flushed and crumpled looking, but her eyes are clear and bright.

"You're in my bed," she mumbles.

He nods mutely.

"Figures I'd only get you here by nearly dying," she continues, voice sluggish. She tries briefly to sit up and gives up, sinking back into the mattress, trembling from the effort. "I mean, come _on_ Kristoff."

She says his name and it's too much, after all of this, too much. He pulls her to him, hides his face in the spot between her neck and shoulder, and lets the dread and pain pour out. It comes up raw and heavy, and it _hurts_: boils and bubbles and forces its way out of his skin, up from his lungs and out his throat in a silent howl. He feels dampness on his cheeks and realizes that he's crying, something he hasn't done in _years_, but it won't stop now; tears roll down his nose and into his ears, and into Anna's hair.

It is a long time before Kristoff can let her go.

When he finally does, (regretfully, but he realizes he's clutching her too tight) she smiles faintly and brushes her fingers along his jaw.

"You grew a _beard_?"

"Not exactly," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I just haven't shaved. There's a difference."

She yawns, eyes drooping. "How long have you been here?"

"A couple days."

"Will you be here when I wake up?"

"Of course."

(People continue to stream in and out of her room - even Elsa joins his vigil, tight lipped and chilly - but when Anna wakes next, he's the first thing she sees.)


	5. Chapter 5

A/N - Special thanks to all the sweet people who left reviews on this last week; that was very encouraging, as I had a dreadful time getting this chapter going. I hope you enjoy it. :)

* * *

"I don't understand what the issue is. You're here all the time anyway." Anna takes a bite of her apple and looks at him appraisingly, eyebrows raised. "Itf realmy doemt make shense."

Kristoff opens his mouth to retort, then thinking better of it, opts to throw his own apple instead. It flashes half eaten against the sky, then falls in a long spiral of red: a blot of blood against March grey. From their perch on the bench of his sled they watch it come down, bouncing and sliding against the hardened tracks of old snow until it comes to rest, skin side up in a drift at the bottom of the hill.

"I don't mind staying at the Inn." He shrugs, and brushes imaginary crumbs from his shirt. "It's close, and it's, um, close." Anna rolls her eyes and begins packing the remnants of their picnic back into a woven basket.

"It's got to get expensive," she counters. "And trust me, I can always tell when you've opted to stay in the stables instead – you never get all the straw out of your hair."

"It's not that bad!"

"What, the price or the fact that you come back smelling like a horse?"

"The _price_, Princess Feistypants. And the smell?" He grins at her and scoots down, careful to get his balance on the smooth and densely packed snow. "That just comes with the territory."

Anna sticks her tongue out at him as she follows, bracing herself with one hand on the sled's wooden sideboards as she makes her way around to where he is unrolling Sven's tack. (_Where had he gone off to, anyway?_)

"Geez, it got slick," she says, experimentally attempting a pirouette. Her boots are some he helped her choose – fur lined and thick, too chunky for snow ballet – and she nearly stumbles.

Kristoff squints at the sky – it's too warm for real snow, and the cycle of freezing and melting has created a glassy crust on the ground. Still, the sun is ebbing further down the horizon – it's time to pack up and head back.

"I'm glad you suggested this," Anna continues, mincing her way past him to where their toboggans were propped against a tree. "If I had to sit through another afternoon of slush I was going to –" She raises her hands by her ears and shakes them, her face a comical grimace.

Kristoff laughs – it's true, this year the winter has lingered long past its due. Lately his visits to the castle had been punctuated by Anna prowling around the halls and dreaming up increasingly absurd activities to occupy the wet and dreary afternoons, until picking up on remarkably blatant hints from Elsa, he suggested an outing.

Their toboggans were hand carved – a labor of many quiet fireside evenings, the grain velvety and polished by oil and months of his hands smoothing over the surface, checking with sensitive fingertips for errant splinters. They had been intended as a Midwinter's present for Anna, but she had been ill, and – well.

Instead of whisking down light and powdered slopes, the toboggans had sat dusty in one of Elsa's closets, past Christmas, past the New Year, and he'd all but given up on using them this winter when a late frost at the castle signaled new snow in the foothills. Feeling more excited than he'd expected, the sleds were recovered and carefully loaded into the back of his sleigh, blankets and a picnic lunch stowed alongside and they'd made for the hills.

It is lucky, he thinks, that even this late in March the weather was, for once, cooperative. Anna's eyes grew wide whenever she pitched down a hill, and her braids flew, and for several hours the air rang with the sound of them laughing. Afterwards, warm and sweaty from climbing up and down the slopes all afternoon they sat on his sled eating cheese sandwiches and apples, and for the first time in months she glowed pink and fully healthy and unconsciously effortlessly beautiful, with her hair poking out from under her hat and eyes glittering with exertion and excitement. He could look at her forever like that.

"I think I want one more go,' Anna is saying, and she's already settling the toboggan down at the top of the run. Kristoff snaps back to the present.

"Anna, I really wouldn't. It'll have gotten a lot faster while we ate."

She gives him a look – the one he recognizes as _don't tell me what to do Kristoff _– and plops down anyway, feet tucked under the curved top, hands braced behind her.

"It'll be fine; don't be such a worry wart." And she pushes off.

* * *

He really hadn't imagined his sleigh being used for this. In all his imaginings of this scenario, the back of his sled had never featured as an option for her – _their_ – first time (okay, that was _kind of _a lie, but he'd never considered that it might actually _happen_); instead he had pictured a warm bed and lots of pillows, candles maybe…the kind of things girls liked, or so he'd been told.

They had talked about it in the past, obscurely, using weird euphemisms like '_it_' and 'when we _you know_' because although the year was scattered with moments stolen in the library or gardens, or occasionally behind Anna's closed bedroom doors – mutually agreed upon, happily partaken in –somehow the timing was never there.

His knees are pressing uncomfortably against a seam in the wood planks, and he can't help but think – even as Anna's hands wind their way under his shirt – just how much can change in ten minutes.

It was just the way of things then, the usual way of her (bold in all things, just like her fingers, _what is she doing good god_), that she'd gone down a trail he'd absolutely 100% told her was not a good idea (which was just like an invitation, he should have known better, it was _Anna_, after all) and flown over a bump and crashed and landed and had lain so still, terribly horribly heart crushingly still at the bottom of the run.

By the time he reached her she was fine, sitting up and a little dazed, but, awash in adrenaline and pure fear he'd yelled, arms waving and mad, and of course, she yelled right back.

_You can't do this to me – not _again, _Anna, you can't – _

_There's nothing to be scared of!_

_Three times! THREE! _

_ Kristoff, that doesn't even count. Calm down – I am right HERE. _

He holds her cheeks in his hands and checks her eyes for signs of a head injury, but she puts her palms flat on his chest and there's a moment when they both freeze – one, two, three heartbeats and the scene changes.

Evidently nothing says 'let's make love' like being scared out of your mind and furious and relieved all at once.

She helps him with her buttons when he fumbles them, tiny pearlescent beaded things that they are. The laces of her corset come apart easily; he loosens them with eyes closed, lips in Anna's hair and against her ears and down her neck, fingers working against the ribbons until the garment is loose. Anna shrugs the fabric of her waistcoat from her shoulders and slips it off, naked to the waist.

Her skin flexes with gooseflesh and flushes with lust – Kristoff rubs her arms briskly, meaning to warm her, but finds the skin hot, and his hands slide down, down, to cup her breasts. She's giving no indication of feeling cold (frankly, he doesn't feel it either), but her nipples are pert, contracted and tight against his palm – he gives each a gentle squeeze and flicks his thumbs over them and Anna gasps, arching her back.

He knows already how nimble her fingers are, so it's not a surprise when he feels them pull at the waist of his pants, tugging them down, around his knees, _off_, and her cool hands pulling him to lie next to her on the nest of quilts and furs hastily thrown down in the carriage of the sleigh. Kristoff spares a moment to be profoundly grateful that he'd packed as many warm things as he could find, and with one hand tugs the edge of a heavy wool blanket over their shoulders.

There is so much more skin than he expected – although how that could have eluded him is a mystery – he did not anticipate how a brush of fingers along his lower back could make his toes contract, or how running his thumbs into the crease of her hips would cause her to twitch toward him.

Anna looks at him and smiles lazily, as if not noticing (or at least not caring) that his hands are trembling when they cup her face, when they ease over the curve of her waist. Her eyes are bright when she grasps him, they reflect her laughter when he shivers, part from chill and part from desire (because this is ridiculous, to be undressed in the mountains in March, but there's no way he's going to stop her now).

There's a break in the clouds, and low afternoon sun shines on them, curled around each other in his sleigh. It doesn't warm, but for a few brief minutes, everything glows gold and pink.

Touching her this way is so different – there's no hurry here, and in daylight he can see everything: the way her eyes flutter when he slides his hand between her legs, the way she bites her lower lip when he eases a finger inside, how the skin on her collarbone blooms when he kisses her breasts and lavishes his tongue against her nipples.

She squirms and moans and bucks her hips against him as he moves his hand against her, warm and wet and welcoming, perfectly and typically unrestrained; her voice is only muffled by his mouth on her hers.

Anna rolls against him, and his breath catches. There's a familiarity to the movements, practiced in a flurry of bodies and skirts against a stone wall, her bed – today when she does it, there's nothing between them. His eyes close involuntarily, lips part. The air is cold.

Carefully he moves, fumbles slightly and then recognizes the feeling of her against his fingertips – the small and firm bit of flesh that, when pressed, causes her to dig into his shoulder and to groan, movements erratic and abandoned.

"Do you want?" He asks when her shaking subsides, and above Anna's breathy gasping, his voice sounds strange and husky.

"Oh yes. _Please._"

She nods and pulls at his arms, and he hopes, shifting a little and bracing himself over her, that he can hold himself upright. Anna winks – she has, he's learned, little to no reservation in these matters – and reaches down to hold him, to guide him to her.

_Oh_.

They freeze. Her eyes widen, and Kristoff can see the faintest inkling of surprise on her face. She looks, for the first time in this whole exchange, girlish; very faintly scared and wholly trusting. What his face says to her he has no idea – probably an equal mix of panic and excitement and love – he loves her, loves her loves her.

"You're okay? Do you want me to stop?"

"No no no…keep going. It's just…different. New."

He can't argue with her there, and scooping one hand under her hips, lifts, pushes, and _there_.

Together they move; Anna's expression flitters from twinges of pain to pants of pleasure, but her hands push against his back, his hips, his thighs, and her knees pull him to her waist, again and again, slowly then quicker, until he knows…

"_Anna – I_'_m…_"

She nods, nips at his shoulder and arousal, growing steadily in his abdomen releases; his eyes clench and hands clutch the blankets, nails scrape wood, Anna is soft around him, and everywhere is her.

* * *

For a long time after they lay propped up against Kristoff's packs and supplies, wrapped close together in the blankets and Anna cries a little and laughs a lot, and Kristoff marvels at how much it wasn't like he'd thought it would be at all, even with 15-something years of imagining it, how much _better_ everything is because it's _her_, the only person he's ever wanted.

"Well, I guess it's sort of fitting, isn't it?" He says, one finger tracing the line between her shoulder and elbow.

"What is?"

"Near death experience. Snow. Love."

"It was not a near death experience, Kristoff."

"Hmm. Maybe not. But, I think – " he sits up, stretches, and considers her for a moment, draped in furs and adoring, nose pink with cold. "I think it's time to go…home."

She doesn't miss the inflection, and immediately straightens, clutching his shirt to her bare chest.

"You mean it?"

Kristoff bends and kisses her, languid and slow, and there's no hesitation, no nervous flutter when he answers.

* * *

Several days later, Kristoff slowly carries his packs up the long staircase towards Anna's room, (two under his arms, one on his back; they're all he owns in the world, which he's never thought twice about until now, surrounded by a clean sort of opulence in the richly polished wood, shining brass fixtures and perfectly clear glass) and each step is promise, and trepidation, and hope.

He passes a window and hears the spring birds calling, feels the lightness of late spring sunshine (again, warm but not quite), turns a corner and faces her door.

The green leaves and pink roses are bright, cheerful, and welcoming as ever.

Laying one knapsack at his feet he raises a hand to knock – an unnecessary formality, it seems, because just as he does, the door swings open wide.

Anna smiles at him inside the doorway. She's lit from behind by the light of her huge double window, hair blazing fire orange, and everything about her looks brilliantly warm. She doesn't say anything, but gestures at him with a huge grin and a formal bow; he rolls his eyes and steps over the threshold.

The door closes behind him without a sound.


End file.
